Page 102 of Our Darkest Summer
Thomas’ head dropped onto my shoulder. His breath was warm against my skin as he buried his head into the nape of my neck. I closed my eyes, my chest aching. We still didn’t know what really happened to Lizzie. Eric had given us pieces, but hecouldn’t have been more than thirteen in 2009. The gaps were still there. And the waiting wastorture.
The door opened again, but this time, it wasn’t Isaac. A woman stepped out—Maeve Diaz, her name tag read.
“You should all go home,” she said, her tone final. “This will take longer than we thought.”
Thomas sat up straighter, shaking his head.
After a moment, Maeve’s gaze flicked to Kevin. “I’m not asking. It’s an order.”
Kevin stood without argument. It was obvious they knew each other.
So we left. It wasn’t easy. It took thirty more minutes of standing outside the station, watching the lights, before we finally convinced ourselves to go home.
It was late. We were tired. And standing there wouldn’t make the interrogation go faster.
???
I walked into the guest room and the first thing I did was kick off my shoes, which were stained with Eric’s blood. The shot one of the officers took at him wasn’t fatal. It was just enough to make him drop the gun and paint both me and Thomas with red flecks. The sight of it was still seared into my mind. The weight of it settled deep in my bones.
I grabbed a clean set of pajamas from my bag and crossed the hall to the bathroom. My body ached for clean, hot water—for something that wasn’t cold earth, or blood, or the weight of a gun barrel grazing my skull. My stomach twisted.
Thomas had disappeared into his room the second he stepped inside the house. Connor and Kevin were downstairs. Part of me wanted to be alone, but the other was petrified to be.
Still, a steaming hot bath sounded amazing, because all I wanted was to wash away the dirt of last night. To scrub off the sickening weight of it. And yet, I couldn’t stop thinking abouthim.
It wasn’t the first time I’d seen him fight. But last night, in the woods, it was different. He fought like he had nothing left to lose.
Like something inside of him snapped so much he didn’t care if he survived.
And then, Eric had said those words that shattered what little hope he had left.
I reached the bathroom door, my fingers curling around the knob, then just slightly, I glanced toward his bedroom. Maybe I should have been there…
No.He wouldn’t want me there. I pushed the door open and froze. Steam curled through the air, fogging up the mirror. Thomas stood under the running water in the shower, his head tipped forward, strands of wet hair falling over his forehead. His hands were braced against the tile, his shoulders taut. Every inch of him was wound so tight it looked like he could snap. Like he was holding himself together through sheer force alone. Something inside me twisted. I took a step back, pulling the door behind me as soundlessly as I could, when?—
“Don’t go.”
I stilled. His voice wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t cold. It was quiet, heavy.A plea.
He didn’t turn around. He didn’t look at me. But somehow, he knew I was there. I wet my lips, my pulse loud in my ears. I didn’t know what to say. So instead of saying anything, I stepped back inside and closed the door. The heat wrapped around me, the air heavy, thick with steam. I moved toward the bathtub and sat at the edge, watching the mist swirl along the mirror.
Then, he turned. I didn’t see it, but I felt it. The shift in the air. The weight of his stare. I swallowed.
“I’m sorry it didn’t turn out how we wanted it.” My voice was barely above a whisper, and for a moment, I wasn’t even sure he heard me over the shower.
But I could feel it. He was still watching. Slowly, I turned my head toward him, and when our eyes met, something inside me shattered. I had never seen him like this.
Not cold. Not distant. Just lost.Broken.I curled my fingers into the fabric of my pajama pants, my throat tightening.
“What can I do?” I asked. “To?—”
To what? I couldn’t bring back his mom. I couldn’t fill the hole in his chest or make the ache inside him disappear. He wasn’t a puzzle. I couldn’t fix this. I couldn’t make it better. I listened to the steady flow of water, trying to think of something—anything—to say. Then, his voice cut through the mist.
“Can you make it go away?”
It wasn’t a challenge. It was a whisper. A boy with the world on his shoulders admitting for the first time that he couldn’t carry it anymore.
“I’ve never felt like this before.” His voice was quiet but edged with something raw. “Like there’s nothing I can do. No answers. No steps. Just this—” His fingers pressed into the tile, like he was trying to find steady ground.
